Ass-Backwards Auditory Assault... 2/2

The Mozart CD was picked up in a check-out line at Safeway earlier that day. My mother later said that she just had a sudden impulse about it, thinking that because I liked the music in "Fantasia", I might appreciate some classical. The lady was so right. It should be noted, my mother is very hit or miss when it comes to taste assumptions where I am concerned. Case in point...

Norma Kamali bathing suit, in style of 1940's siren... HIT!

6th and 8th grade graduation dresses with huge white-laced collars, in style of Sandra Day O'Connor... MISS!

Alarm clock set to play Billie Holiday every morning... HIT!

Bamboo backpack... Ummm... Shall we take a wild guess or a flying leap on this one?

Mozart was an obsession for me, and by that I mean a full-fledged love and insatiable appetite for all things related to. Further, it was my first free-forming obsession. It needed no guidance, no prompting, and no encouragement; but mama certainly enjoyed the novelty of a 5th grader capable of recognizing the odd concerto, aria, or overture where and whenever they appeared. Incidentally, Mozart's music is used far more often in popular culture than most realize or acknowledge. I became a party-trick and playing the first opening notes of various tracks on the CD's and guessing how long it would take me to "NAME THAT COMPOSITION" was an endless source of entertainment for mother and her dinner guests. In a matter of months, one CD had grown to four and the giant map covering a wall in my room was full of colored-coded pins indicating his birthplace, working locations, and place of burial. I fantasized about Vienna constantly, his beloved "City of Music". I practiced German out of a library book in preparation for the journey- which by my calculations would be in ohhhh... 2 or 3 years, as I was fairly sure I could convince my mother to let me travel there on my own at the ripe old age of 12; 13 at the very latest! PHEW, that would be old.

Needless to say, I was a little off in this estimation. At 29 I've yet to visit Vienna. Invariably, the obsession waned and the interest gave way to subsequent musical preoccupations. But Mozart was my first and he set the bar sky high. He taught me what it was to hear music in movements and few artists have come close to the hair-raising, goose bump-inducing, passionate perfection of Amadeus. Maria Callas at her peak comes to mind... Edith Piaf... And in a similar way- Nirvana, The Clash, and Arcade Fire. Albeit there was the occasional embarrassment along the way. For example, no matter how I attempt to justify the choice, there were just no excuses for the purchase of "The Bodyguard" soundtrack in 8th grade. *cringe* Or that time I bought Paula Abdul's "Spellbound" and Joy Division's "Closer" in the same transaction. *sacreligious cringe* Of course, I'm still making embarrassing music choices today, but I learn from my mistakes and love the good ones with a burning fervor more often reserved for soul mates than CD's. I can't be bothered to question the evolution from Bob Marley to Motown to "The Mickey Mouse Club" to Mozart to The Melvins to NOFX to Bikini Kill to Blondie and countless others in between... But it was my musical education and it was vast and grand and it continues every single day. And in my estimation, Mozart- the man who wrote such treasured beauties as "The Marriage of Figaro", "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik" and "Don Giovanni", but also had the sick and darling sense of humor to write the canon "Leck mich im Arsch" (literally, "Lick My Ass") would be terribly proud.

Ass-Backwards Auditory Assault... 1/2

Note to self... Don't expect musical predilections to dictate life. Ever.

But I couldn't help it. Waxing poetic recently to the poor, obliging boyfriend on my "sliiiiight obsession" with Mozart as a ten year old, I was thrust back into the hopeful romanticism of my youth. I remember distinctly, my mother watching "Amadeus" on the trusty beta-max just before my tenth birthday and her rare indifference to my presence throughout the course of the film. It was common knowledge that the full extent of my T.V. privileges were rigidly confined to:

1. The Discovery Channel (and even then it had to be monitored lest some bare-chested heathen in Papua New Guinea corrupt me).

2. The Disney Channel (much scarier than 'Amadeus' of course, but with a name like DISNEY it has to be good- little did she know the Mickey Mouse Club and "Goodbye Miss Fourth of July" were absolutely traumatizing).

3. JEM & The Rockers (Shocker! But it was only a half-hour program and I think she felt this allowance made her an edgy mom- cue further trauma).

4. Various Horse & Rider instructional tapes (which I would later finagle with scotch tape and record over with Red Hot Chili Peppers videos- to her ultimate horror, and my ultimate denial... "I don't know how it happened... Maybe the T.V. was broken for a little while and we just didn't know."

5. Charlie & The Chocolate Factory (but ONLY after I'd read the book- which at that age felt akin to reading the Iliad).

6. The Black Stallion (which subsequently initiated an obsession with bareback riding sans bridle- curiously, this was neither frowned upon nor disallowed. Yes, my mother is possibly a little "off color", but we'll just call it "off" for the sake of historical accuracy here).

But I digress...

The challenge...

"A blog a day for one week."

Hell.

But I'm in. I'm blogging with bells on, regardless of the "1:50 AM" glaring at me from the upper right-hand corner. Fuck you, clock! Granted, I'm not about to attempt witty jocosity or intellectual acrobatics at this God-awful hour... But I can certainly crack out a quickie, maintain my end of the deal, and at the very least walk myself through some day-in-the-life-of nonsense...

11:53 AM
Awaken to the sounds of absolutely nothing. Who knew Mondays were so quiet?! Happy. Rested. Thrilled, even. This is the first morning in a handful of mornings that I haven't felt in need of "just a few more minutes". I am up, ready to start my day and feeling cracked-out on life.

Joy.

1:00 PM
Showered, teeth brushed, and make-up dial set to "on". Ready to face the day. Or what's left of it... Bookstore bound.

1:30-ish
Having accomplished with minimal effort, the requisite errands- which help me to feel absolutely productive and totally guilt-free about sleeping the day away, we secure sustenance in the form of blended fruity goodness and baked berry muffin brilliance. Inordinate waiting ensues as we're obliged to tolerate the incompetence and blending follies of a "trainee".

Fuuuuuuuck.

2:00-esque
Having wandered into a costume store, we are overcome with latex and colored polyester fur. All comin' atcha LIVE with a healthy coating of dust! Allergies immediately send out red flags and make threats... Something about taking another step, and rearing an ugly head... But this is not simply gratuitous browsing, we're on a mission. As the boyfriend seeks to post t-shirts online and requires a lady to model said shirts, it falls upon me to make said body available as his animated mannequin. Unforrrrtunately, said mannequin requires one or more of the following to get in front of a camera without suffering any of that pesky anxiety attack stuff...

1. Stiff drink- preferably of the brown variety and served short.
2. Recreational drugs- preferably fast acting and taken in double doses.
3. A mask- preferably of the over-the-head rather than over-the-face variety. As in, if they (as in the entire population of Earth) can't see my hair either, they DEFINITELY won't know it's me!

Brilliant.

3:00-or thereabouts
We don't believe in "loitering" per se... As evident by the not infrequent hours spent reading entire volumes of newly released books and magazines in Barnes & Noble. After the first hour and a half or so, the staff might begin to suspect you of vagrancy, and give you the "buy or bolt" look. This is your cue to meander into the cafe and order a $1.10 tea. Money well spent! This tea just bought you another hour, cowboy.

Yee-Haw.

4:40 PM
Having emerged at last from the black hole of Calcutta that is the bookstore- we decide that the next two hours would be best spent seeing the new Angelina Jolie film. Retro theatre... No lines... Matinee rates... We're so in. And lucky me, the boyfriend claims revulsion of Jolie's infamous "pillow lips". "I wouldn't want to kiss those". Clearly, he loves me- and I love the big fat liar right back.


8:30 PM
Cooking inabilities reach new heights when forgotten-about steamed artichokes emerge smokey and burned.

BAM!

12:30 AM
Is it really that late? Having eaten ourselves silly, brainstormed on the couch for a few hours, argued over exes and groped each other sufficiently- it's time to call it a night.

Yawwwwwwn...

2:30 AM
Looking so forward to sleeping in again tomorrow. Looking so forward to gloating in the face of doubt. How dare he suspect I'd flake out on this blog challenge! And so it begins...

Sweet dreams.

Graffito a-go-go... "New Times- San Luis Obispo", May 2008

With all the recent dialogue surrounding graffiti in our area; due in no small part, to public interest in artist Nic Rodriguez’s arrest as a suspected graffiti vandal, I beg the question: What constitutes “art” in SLO County? And furthermore, who is responsible for making that determination? Of course, the simple answer is, there is no simple answer. One could just as easily ask: Who determines art anywhere? Or, who dictates what is beautiful, funny, or enjoyable within a society? Certainly anyone who has traveled or observed others to any degree, will attest that one person’s ideas of art, beauty, comedy, style, taste, etc. will vary from one end of the globe to another- and further still within a single population. And anyone with parents or children knows that what one-generation regards as beautiful, or funny- the former may have found obscene, and the latter may find oppressive.

I venture to guess that artists themselves determine art forms in a given society. But who legitimizes their choices? Patrons, police, an Arts Council, critics, public opinion? And who’s to say art should be legitimized at all? Surely, if beauty is in the eye of beholder, art should be similarly placed.

This is a constant theme in my own home, as I contemplate the smeared and finger-swiped globs of paint that my son presents to me, and sincerely proclaim it his “best work yet!” it is heavily discussed, dissected, and critiqued; and at the age of 8, he is the most prolific artist I know. His masterpieces overflow from under magnets across our refrigerator and he exudes a confidence to rival all the self-important expressionists combined. But would my neighbor regard his works as “art”? Would placing them behind glass and frame legitimize these pieces? I could print out an 8x10” Jackson Pollack painting, and under a magnet on the refrigerator, it is reduced to a child’s random splattering. Okay, Pollack may be too easy a target… Picasso, for that matter! I’ll stop while I’m ahead… The point is, art itself may be too easy a target. Anything as open to interpretation as Art is subject to critique, but when a society begins to criticize creativity itself- in any form, it is treading a dangerous ground. Anyone remember communist China and its artistic bonfires? With trepidation, I presume to imply that San Luis Obispo’s graffiti issues echo that of a nation brought to its knees by a communist dictatorship. And obviously, it is not my place to determine what you consider art, but as a modern, educated culture, let us make an informed distinction between the imposing, territorial nature of “tagging” and the free form expression with a message that is “street art”; known en masse as, “graffiti”.

Regardless of whether or not you consider it vandalism, tagging- or the frequent writing of ones’ name on random surfaces, is in my opinion, just plain ugly. Doubtless, we’ve all seen the “SOAK” tag scrawled across newspaper stands, stop signs and rubbish bins… It practically blankets this county. Placed seemingly at random, with no regard or respect for property or composition, it is neither beautiful, nor useful in any way, and there is nothing funny or clever about the tag itself. And as far as I am able to discern, there is no deeper message to be derived from it. Therefore, what is the appeal of marking a nearly unintelligible, and largely meaningless word as often as possible? It seems more reminiscent of a dog marking its territory than art. Dare we call it creative expression? Dismissively, I don’t even regard tagging as worthy of discussion; it is merely an unattractive nuisance and blemish upon the face of street art. For every stride made toward legitimizing the truly free public expression that is street art, tagging drags it two steps backwards and assists in labeling it vandalism. But far more interesting than my own opinion, was that of several street artists I encountered earlier this month at the opening of “Urban Escapades” in the Jeff Claassen Gallery. In a rather telling interpretation of his own take on this subject, Claassen has designated a small portion of wall-space in his gallery an “Authorized Graffiti Area”, which visitors and artists alike have not been shy about putting to use. In less than three hours on opening night the “authorized” space became completely full, and spilled over onto its neighboring, un-authorized walls. Spray paint, permanent markers, postal stickers, and even lipstick were the mediums of choice and “Death to SOAK” was a resounding theme amongst participants. In fact, the “SOAK” tag has become so infamously frowned-upon by local street artists, that the word itself is now a mocking insult. And don’t bother jumping to conclusions here, stereotypes did not abound… As expected, the graffiti-inspired show drew the usual crowd of teenagers in torn pants, and art-after-dark participants. But along with the regulars, the crowd was an eclectic mix of graphic designers, a KSBY news crew, families with young children, street artists, retirees, freegans and out of town art patrons. With over 250 visitors, the tiny gallery space was filled well beyond a comfortable capacity, making it impossible not to rub elbows (and other appendages) with everyone you passed. However, even amidst the frenzy, the tone of the crowd was enthusiastic and appreciative, and not a single item was reported damaged or stolen. Touchingly, in a show of solidarity, many of the participating artists gifted Nic Rodriguez with art supplies to replenish those taken as evidence against him by the San Luis Obispo Police Department.

As of his first court hearing last week Thursday, none of the items taken (finished work, blank canvasses, sketchbooks, paints, pens, and brushes) had been returned to him. However, before any legal negotiations took place, the City had reduced his charges from 24 counts of vandalism to 14. It seems now that with such an outpouring of support, not to mention a sudden demand for his paintings, the example the City intended to make of Rodriguez has backfired a bit. A growing number of supporters have rallied around him and support the claim that he is not a vandal, but rather a legitimate artist. According to Rodriguez himself, in their enthusiasm the arresting officers failed to read his Miranda rights. So, is this going to be like an episode of “Law & Order”? Is the case to be dismissed due to a misstep by overzealous cops? Not quite. Rodriguez has secured the services of attorney David L. Fisher, and it’s going to be an expensive battle. In effort to help raise funds towards Rodriguez’s mounting legal fees, Claassen intends to auction off the 2x4’ “authorized graffiti area” or “tag board” later this month. Regardless of what you label it, graffiti is not a bad word and graffitists cannot continue to be stereotyped as hoodlums and vandals. They are instructors, salesmen, community philanthropists, and activists, men and women; they are a segment of society fed up with the bombardment of billboards, mass promotion, and forced opinions- taking it upon themselves to reclaim our civic spaces. They are of the belief that messages intended for the public, should not be limited to those who can afford to purchase or rent the platform. You might call them, artistic squatters. But dare we call them artists? And if we give them an inch, will they take a mile? It’s become increasingly clear in recent weeks that ours is a community divided over the issue. With conservatives publicly threatening to “cane” an artist suspected of posting graffiti, and liberals rallying in his defense, “authorized graffiti areas” may be more than just a tongue-in-cheek message to the establishment; they may be a legitimate compromise. Many have proposed that the City explore alternative choices to graffiti, such as those recently embraced with much success by communities in Philadelphia, Chicago, Seattle, and Toronto (among others)… Cities embracing and containing public art by providing open arts spaces. In much the way that skateboard parks have become embraced as a safer, more controlled, alternative to street-skating, an open arts space provides a community with a forum for large-scale public expression. The walls are intended to be blank canvases, painted-over at will by children, street artists and traditional artists alike. Graffitists are provided with a space to collaborate and spend time legally and legitimately honing their artistic talents, which may later lead to careers in the Arts field. Designs are not rushed and artists are not skittishly posting look-outs for police while painting. In participating cities, the open arts spaces have helped to discourage private property damage, and in turn, lowered the prevalence of graffiti in surrounding areas. These spaces have even become something of a tourism-draw and a symbol of the urban maturation of the communities. Not buying it? Think of how many people come to SLO and regard the gum-wall as a must see. Providing a public arts space within a community puts the authority to determine what they consider art, back in their hands. If a person doesn’t appreciate something on the open art wall, they simply paint over it. If you think that you can do better than that, you paint over it. No one wants to see SLO inundated by spray painted stencils, postal stickers, tagging and painted-over graffiti. But do we wish to live in a community that, even with a successful Arts Council in place, stifles abstract expression in favor of sterile pastoral scenes and vineyard-scapes? It seems that at present we must concede ourselves to the fact that the authorities in this town make the determination between vandalism and art. But I take consolation in the occasional well-placed street art I find around town- however short-lived. “Garbage Sale” signs on telephone poles usually last a day or so. And recently my son remarked to me that the silhouetted stencil of a cat on the side of a downtown building was his favorite painting “…because it looks like it’s climbing up that wall to catch a mouse.” I responded, “Well… it was honey, but the mice have been painted-over.”

Evidently, the cat was authorized to stay.

KEN LEEEE!!!

No one ken to ken to sivmeh (no I can't forget this evenin')
nor yon clees toju maliveh (nor your face as you were leavin')
wen I giz aju zavateh na nalechoo more (but I guess that's just the story goes)
new yonooz tonigh molinigh (you always smile, but in your eyes)
yon sora shooo yes ee shooo, ooo (your sorrow shows, yes it shows)
Ken Leeee (I can't live)
tulibu dibu douchoo (if livin' is without you)
Ken Leeee (I can't live)
tulibu dibu douchoo (if livin' is without you)
Ken Leeee (I can't give)
Ken Lee meju more (I can't give anymore)